After the ambulance had driven away from the Belfry, bearing the poor, mutilated remains which presented the C.I.D. with such a baffling problem, and Macdonald had left with his assistants, one watcher remained in the shadows at the back of the building. This was Detective Fuller, detailed to remain on guard in case any further developments occurred in the premises of The Morgue. Fuller expected nothing more than a boring night, during which he might exchange a cautious word with the point-duty man at given intervals, and long for the first streaks of dawn to lighten the eastern sky. It seemed to him that the focus point of interest had left with the ambulance—the corpse was unearthed and removed, and The Morgue, having yielded up its secret, was but one of those unoccupied premises which occasionally attract the interest of the police, are depicted in the picture papers for a brief season, and then return to their dull obscurity of waiting for a tenant.
Fuller had no faith in the popular adage that a murderer always returns to the scene of his kill. In the cases which he had investigated the murderer always took care to put a good distance between himself and the place to which he had hopefully relegated his victim’s body.
Sitting on a ledge in the dark little garden at the back of the studio, Fuller pondered over the cases in which he had been engaged. He knew the importance, from a police point of view, of an early identification of the corpse in a murder case. This new murderer’s “technique” of removing the identifiable portions of their victim was a snag from the viewpoint of the C.I.D. In this case, now, they were likely to have a lot of trouble in sorting things out if they could not identify the remains which had been so skilfully concealed in that niche.
Occupied with his own thoughts, Fuller heard a distant clock boom midnight. Could that be Big Ben, he pondered—three miles away as the crow flies, wind from the south, maybe—He was just about to get up and make another tour of the premises in his charge when he changed his mind, and drew back into the shadow of the bushes. The iron gate which led to the road had creaked on its rusty hinges.
Straining his ears for a footfall, Fuller heard nothing more, but in a moment a shadow appeared on the stone flags at the corner of the building, cast by the lamplight outside the gate, and then a man’s figure appeared. He moved quite silently, being shod in shoes with crepe-rubber soles, and he was clad in a long raincoat, with a cap well pulled down over his face. Fuller said “Glory!” this being more than he had hoped for in this lonely vigil, and waited for developments.
This visitor was no tramp, seeking to doss down for the night; even in the uncertain light it was obvious that the coat was a good coat, and the cap of good shape. The visitor came to a halt by the porch, and tentatively turned the handle. (“Poor mutt. That won’t work,” said Fuller.) Being only a few yards away from him, the detective could see that this was not the famous bearded man whom Macdonald wanted, neither, in Fuller’s opinion, was it Attleton. The latter was described as spare and active, about five feet ten in height, with a long, lean face. This party was a heavily-built fellow; the belt around his coat defined a figure inclining to stoutness, and the cheeks visible beneath the cap were full.
Leaving the door, the visitor advanced round the corner of the building to the coal-hole, let himself gingerly down into the little area, and investigated the window with the assistance of a flash lamp. The reflected light enabled Fuller to see the rather highly-coloured face, heavy jowl and fleshy ear of the intruder. He also heard him swear quietly as the realisation of the blocked aperture dawned on him. He proceeded to climb out again, and Fuller decided that time for action was ripe. Switching the beam of his own powerful bull’s-eye on to the unknown investigator, he said politely, “Now, sir, what are you doing here?”
“The devil!” exclaimed that gentleman, and turned about in his tracks as though to make a hurried departure, but Fuller blocked his way.
“What the devil’s it got to do with you what I’m doing here?” spluttered the other. “When it comes to that, what are you doing here? Up to no good, that I’ll swear. Clear out of this or I’ll give you in charge.”
“Won’t do, sir. I’m in the police force. I’ll have to trouble you to come along to the station and give an account of yourself.”
“What the deuce d’you mean? You can’t play tricks like that on me. I won’t stand any of your nonsense, understand that! Get out of my way!”
“Now, sir, that won’t do!”
“Won’t it, you damned impostor, you!”
The blow aimed at Fuller had got plenty of weight behind it, but the detective side-stepped. The heavy man recovered himself with a surprising agility for one of his build, and lunged out again. The second blow was a different business, and while it winded Fuller, it also made him see red. A savage blow beneath the belt is enough to try the temper even of a well-disciplined C.I.D. man, accustomed to a rough-and-tumble. Fuller, grunting with pain, let the other chap have it, hot and strong, and having got him on the ground, rammed down a knee amidships without overmuch thought of where it was going, and got the handcuffs on his prostrate victim, having told him what he thought of him in language more forceful than academic.
It was at this stage in the night’s proceedings that the point-duty man turned up, running round the flagged path with very audible footfalls.
“Got him?” asked the constable foolishly, being not very intelligent by nature, and not overfond of running.
“I should say I have,” replied Fuller. “Now then, get up, sir, and reckon you’re lucky I didn’t serve you with your own sauce. Up you get, and you’ve no one but yourself to thank for your troubles. You’ll have to go along with the point-duty man to the station, and you can explain there what you were doing on these premises, and why you struck a police officer during the execution of his duties.”
In the struggle the well-shaped cap worn by the intruder had fallen off (it was now less well-shaped, having been trodden underfoot), and Fuller could see his opponent’s dark head, the sleek hair all awry and the heavy, flushed face of a very angry man. Nevertheless, the handcuffed man made an effort to speak reasonably.
“Look here, Inspector,” he began. “I apologise. I made a damned fool of myself and lost my head completely, but you haven’t the ghost of a reason for running me in. I just felt curious about this queer old place, and thought I’d like to have a look round. I didn’t even try to break in, you know that quite well. Look here, let bygones be bygones, and I’ll make it worth your while, both of you—”
“You’re one of that kind, are you?” said Fuller disgustedly. “You first kick another chap in the middle, and then offer him a bribe to get off. Well, you’ve made a little mistake this time. Bates” (this to the constable) “I’m detailed to stop here. You’d better whistle up your point-mate at the next corner and tell him to take over your beat till you return. Report to the superintendent that the man you’ve got in charge was arrested for suspicious behaviour attempting to enter the Belfry, and that he attacked the officer in charge in attempting to escape. And you can keep your explanation for my superior officers, sir,” he ended up in his best manner.
“Now then, are you coming quietly?” demanded the constable, and marched his man off.
Fuller, composed in mind if still somewhat pained in person, sat down on his ledge and awaited further visitors, but none occurred that night.
Macdonald, getting up, as was his custom, shortly after six, had a phone call from the superintendent of the Belfry neighbourhood just as he had shaved.
“I didn’t see any point in waking you up in the middle of the night,” explained that official. “Fuller collected a gentleman named Mr. Thomas Burroughs in the Belfry grounds last night. Loitering with suspicious intent—and then used his boots on Fuller in the hope of doing a get-away. Won’t give any account of his reasons for being there. Just idle curiosity. He’s been cooling his heels here ever since. I find it generally pays to give that sort of leisure to think. More likely to come across with it after a night in the cells. Seems a prosperous sort of bird.”
“That sounds satisfactory,” replied Macdonald. “I’ll be along shortly. Kind of Mr. Burroughs to look us up. I rather wanted him.”
Mr. Thomas Burroughs was shown into the Chief Inspector’s presence in a small office in the local station at the uncomforting hour of eight a.m., and if the stockbroker had ever looked genial and self-confident, he did not look it now. He was a very angry man, but not, so far as Macdonald could see, a frightened one. He spent some time in a blustering exculpation of his own actions before Macdonald interrupted him.
“You don’t seem to have grasped the nature of the case into which you have blundered,” said the Chief Inspector at last. “The reason that we had a man on duty at the Belfry Studio was that a murder has been committed there. A man’s body was removed from the premises only a few hours before you were caught loitering there.”
Burrough’s face was a study. From being apoplectic in hue it became livid, and the rather prominent eyes fairly bulged.
“Murdered?” he gasped, “not…” He shut his jaw with a snap before another word escaped him, and then made an effort to speak more calmly.
“I’m horrified at what you tell me, Inspector, horrified! I understand now the somewhat violent behaviour of the man you had in charge, but I assure you that I knew nothing about this murder, nothing at all. My visit there was dictated by curiosity, nothing more. I happened to be passing the place, and it struck me that it looked unusual, bizarre, in fact, and I gave way to an impulse to have a look at it. I’m not a burglar, Inspector, nor yet a tramp or vagrant. Here is my card. You have only to send for my solicitor to identify me.”
“I’m not doubting your identity. Not in the very least,” said Macdonald, and something in his voice made the other blench. “As a matter of fact, I have been wanting to get into touch with you. You are a friend of Mr. Bruce Attleton’s?”
Burrough’s face became again suffused with red.
“Well, yes. I know him pretty well.”
“Have you seen him lately—during the past week?”
“No. Not since—let me think, Tuesday week it’d be, ten days ago.”
“Yesterday morning, information was given to my department concerning Mr. Attleton, to the effect that he had disappeared. He did not go to the hotel in Paris where he had engaged rooms, and his friends were uneasy about him. They became still more uneasy when Mr. Attleton’s suitcase was found in the untenanted Belfry Studio. On investigation, a man’s body was discovered in the building.”
Watching Mr. Burrough’s face, Macdonald thought that he was going to faint, so livid had his face become, and the Chief Inspector got up and poured out a glass of water for him from the carafe on the superintendent’s desk.
“Thanks. Silly of me, but I can’t stick horrors,” said Burroughs weakly. “Beastly story—You say you found poor Attleton’s body.”
“No. I didn’t say so. I said we found a body. It has not yet been identified. Now, sir, I think you will see that it is reasonable to give a full account of the motives which prompted you to visit the Belfry, and to investigate a window by which it was possible, until recently, to make an entry into the premises. An account of the manner in which you have spent the last ten days, will, I hope, enable us to release you without preferring a charge.”
Burroughs sat stock still, his face frowning, his jaw set.
“And if I decide to say nothing at all, Inspector? On what grounds do you charge me?”
“I prefer to detain you on suspicion, sir. You can see for yourself the position in which you are placed. Had you not offered violence to the officer who interrogated you, you might be better placed.”
“I lost my temper,” said Burroughs acidly. “I was doing no harm.”
“Then in that case a statement of your actions can do you no harm, either. For instance, why were you in this neighbourhood after midnight? I know you have been away from home for a week or more, because I tried to get into touch with you yesterday, and could get no address.”
Burroughs shook his head. “I’m not prepared to make any statement at all,” he said obstinately. “Look here. You say you’ve found a corpse. Either it’s Attleton’s or it isn’t. What about my identifying him for you? I don’t like corpses, but I’m willing to waive my feelings over this one.”
“I should be very glad if you could identify the remains, sir,” said Macdonald, “but it’s not going to be easy. The corpse has been mutilated, and the head and hands removed.”
“Good God!” Mr. Burroughs looked round the tiny room as though seeking for escape. “Horrible,” he groaned. “My God, horrible!”
“Very horrible,” agreed Macdonald, and the other sat with his face in his hands. Looking up at the stern-faced man beside him, Mr. Burroughs shuddered weakly. “Is this a nightmare?” he asked.
“No. It’s very grim reality,” retorted Macdonald. “This is a police station, and I am an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department working on a case of murder. It’s better for you to remember it.”
Mr. Burroughs was biting his finger nails now—a habit which Macdonald loathed.
“Look here,” said the former. “From what you say, this corpse may not be Attleton at all. It may be anybody. You’ve got no reason to connect me with it.”
“You connected yourself with it,” replied Macdonald. “You had better answer a few questions. Do you know where Mrs. Attleton is now, or where she has spent the last week or so since she left home?”
“No,” replied the stockbroker dourly. “I do not.”
(“Lie number one,” registered Macdonald.)
“Have you ever heard of a man named Debrette?”
Mr. Burroughs continued to bite his finger nails, very thoroughly, and then he said slowly:
“Look here, Inspector. It’s no use going on like this. I’m not going to answer any questions until I’ve seen my solicitor. I’m at liberty to communicate with him. That’s common law.”
“It is,” agreed Macdonald. “You were told so when you arrived here.”
“And seeing you’re going to keep me here until you’ve cleared the mess up, I should like some clean clothes,” went on Mr. Burroughs. “Any objection to that?”
“None,” said Macdonald. “If you have made up your mind not to answer any questions, it is no use my wasting time asking you any. Only remember this. You are under suspicion by your own action in going to the Belfry and making a bee-line for the one spot where you might have obtained access. If you refuse to make any explanation of your action, you remain under suspicion and your recent doings will be subject to routine inquiry. Believe me, you’ll save yourself trouble in the long run, as well as me, if you tell me just why you went to the place last night.”
“I’ve told you,” replied Mr. Burroughs glumly, and Macdonald got up and went out.
“What d’you make of him?” asked the superintendent, as the C.I.D. man came to his office, and Macdonald shrugged his shoulders. “Nasty fellow. Bites his nails. Got something to hide, and though he’s frightened, he’s much more afraid of saying his bit than sitting mum and facing the music. He wants his solicitor, you might get that fixed up for him. It’s more likely that his own lawyer will make him see sense than that I can. ‘Detained, pending inquiries.’ I’ll take the responsibility. See that he’s decently fed, and all that. He looks pretty green at present.”
Macdonald’s next port of call was The Small House in Mayfair, where he found Rockingham eating his breakfast, with The Times propped up in front of him.
“Hullo. Thinking of running me in for misleading the police?” inquired the bald-headed gentleman cheerfully. (He reminded Macdonald of a very prosperous don when he was placid and cheerful, as at present.)
“No, sir,” returned the latter. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you. It’s distinctly unpleasant, so be prepared.”
“I’m sorry about that,” said Rockingham, his cheery face suddenly sobered, “and do, for God’s sake, leave off calling me ‘sir.’ What’s the trouble now?”
Macdonald told him, and Rockingham pushed back his plate of toast and marmalade, set his elbow on the table and leaned his face in his hands.
“My Lord!” he groaned. “This fairly puts the lid on it. Who on earth was the poor wretch?”
“That’s just the problem,” said Macdonald. “I want you to think again—very hard. Are you certain that it was Mr. Attleton’s voice over the phone yesterday?”
Rockingham took his time before he answered. He lighted a cigarette and frowned up at the ceiling.
“I thought so at the time,” he said wearily. “It didn’t occur to me to question it. Now—God knows! If you were in my place, how would you like to have to answer that question? If I swear that it was Bruce’s voice which spoke to me, what’s the conclusion? Doesn’t it stare you in the face? It’s as good as sending him to the gallows. It’d be better to believe he was plastered up into that niche—”
“It’s no use thinking along those lines,” said Macdonald quietly. “It may be difficult—don’t think I underestimate it, to be impartial, but it’s the only line to follow. Nothing but the whole truth will serve now.”
His quiet voice was curiously impressive, and Rockingham flinched a little. Emptying his cup, he refilled it with black coffee from the little cafetiere which bubbled at his elbow, and sipped the scalding liquid as Macdonald went on:
“Tell me the exact circumstances of that call, and exactly what was said.”
Rockingham took a deep breath before he replied:
“I had been tuning-in the wireless to a foreign station, and when the phone rang I was still busy with it. I lifted the receiver to stop the bell ringing and said, ‘Hold on a minute, whoever you are.’ Then I went back to my set and stopped it hooting. I tell you that because it may explain why I was cut off. I wasted a couple of minutes perhaps. Then, after I’d said, ‘Hullo, who is it?’ I heard Bruce say in that short staccato way he has, ‘That you, Neil? Bruce speaking.’ I chipped in here, as you may imagine, and he went on in answer to my queries, ‘Sorry I let you down over Paris. Had an urgent letter which took me north. I shall be back in a couple of days.’ Then I asked him where he was, and what the devil he’d been doing, and then the line went dead. Rather a funny thing, I had the impression it was a long-distance call, because his voice sounded faint, and the line was noisy, as the continental line often is, but I heard no warning from the operator that time was up.”
“You wouldn’t. It was an automatic exchange. The call came from Charing Cross.”
“Charing Cross! Where Grenville spoke from? Good Lord! That’s a crazy idea.”
“No use having any ideas at all. Stick to the facts,” replied Macdonald. “You heard a voice speak a couple of dozen words, in the abrupt manner of Mr. Attleton, after your mind had been prepared for his voice by the announcement of his name. As evidence, it’s not too good. However, the intention was undoubtedly to prove that Mr. Attleton was alive. Let us leave that point. The next thing I want to know is this. Did Mr. Attleton ever employ a masseur, or take Turkish baths?”
Rockingham nodded. “Yes, at his club. He always employed the same masseur.”
“That’s the best hope of identification—or the reverse,” said Macdonald. “He had never been operated on, I imagine? No chance of getting a surgeon’s opinion?”
“Not to my knowledge. Look here, what on earth was the idea of this ghastly mutilating business?”
“The idea’s all too obvious,” replied Macdonald. “To prevent identification. It may be successful yet. It won’t be easy for a masseur to swear to anything. There weren’t any distinguishing marks as far as I could ascertain. You’d better have some brandy in that coffee. You look all in.”
He got up and went to the sideboard, realising that Rockingham was not far off fainting point, and finding a bottle of cognac, returned to the table with it and poured a stiff dose into the cooling coffee. Rockingham swallowed it gratefully, saying:
“I can’t get away from the horror of it—cutting up—”
“Then try to think of something else,” said Macdonald brusquely, adding a moment later, “It’s no odds to any man what happens to his corpse. I’d as soon leave mine to a school of dissection as anything else. Don’t confuse living and non-living. Do you feel fit to answer a few questions along another tack?”
Rockingham nodded. “All right. Get on with it.”
“Where does Mr. Thomas Burroughs come into the picture?”
“Burroughs?” The surprise in Rockingham’s voice was patent. “What’s he to do with it? I don’t like the chap, and Attleton doesn’t either. He’s one of Sybilla’s hangers-on. Rich as Crœsus and mean as muck—except when he’s on the pursuit of pleasure. Bites his nails.”
“So I observed,” said Macdonald. “He was caught in the grounds of the Belfry late last night, trying the coal-hole entry. He won’t give any why or wherefore.”
“Burroughs? This grows more and more lunatic. I’ve admitted I don’t like him, but I can’t see him running amok. He hasn’t the nerve of a flea.”
“Wasn’t he one of the party at your genial—and theoretical murder discussion? I gather that he hadn’t any theories to advance on that occasion. Has he ever done anything in the acting line?”
“He fancies himself as an amateur—in one of those West End do-it-for-charity humbugs. Sir Peter Teazle, dolled up in satin breeches. You know the stuff.”
“I know it. Did he and Attleton get across one another?”
“More or less. If Attleton had been master in his own house, Burroughs would never have entered it.”
“I take it that Mrs. Attleton would have welcomed it if she’d found grounds for divorce?”
“Possibly. She has never mentioned it to me—I don’t discuss her husband with her.”
“But you knew that Mr. Attleton sought consolation elsewhere. Once again, are you certain that you can’t enlarge on that point? It’s no time for reticences.”
Rockingham shook his head. “No. I don’t know a thing about it—beyond assumptions. I took care not to. I’ve other ideas on the subject of—pleasure, if you like to use the term. Chacun à son gout.”
Macdonald nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you in peace now. Sorry to have brought you such an unpalatable tale.”
Rockingham screwed his face up.
“The devil of it is, I don’t know what to wish,” he replied.
Macdonald, on his way to Park Village South, pondered over another idea. What if Attleton had fulfilled some private vengeance, and then sent Burroughs a letter which had taken him to the Belfry?—a suggestion that Attleton himself could be caught in flagrante delicto? Leave the stockbroker in the lurch—but why that telephone call? Faked? For what purpose? To prove that Attleton was alive.
“I’ve a hunch he isn’t,” said Macdonald to himself.